


Relearning

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, POV Second Person, spoilers for chapter 42
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 20:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a comfort at one time, a warm hand finding yours in the dark and squeezing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relearning

Christa is a goddess, an unattainable, untouchable icon. Everyone knows she’s the girl they want to settle down with in the end, to retire and have a family with. None of the other guys know her either, not really, but she’s safe and sweet and normal. Perfect. You don’t need to know her to know you want that security.

But it’s not Christa who promises you home and safety, voice soft in your ear. It was a comfort at one time, a warm hand finding yours in the dark and squeezing. Once you yank away and snap at him that you’re not a child. You don’t remember if he apologized or simply pulled away, silent, but he never does it again. Some days you’re grateful.

He says all the things you want to hear but only on the surface, you don’t want what hides below, what he really means. It’s confusing, your head pounds because you can’t get back what’s lost and you have a mission and the mission comes first because you’re a soldier -but that’s not quite right. Nothing with him is, like clothes too tight in all the wrong places, restrictive and uncomfortable and you want to tear them off, but find it is your own skin grown too tight over what you hide underneath.

It’s not Christa you think about fucking. She’s a pretty thing, but everything about her screams fragile, breakable. Something to protect. She would shatter under your touch, no matter for careful. You want warm hands finding you in the dark and a lot more than anything they’ve done before.

You’re not supposed to want this. Maybe if you can convince everyone else, you can convince yourself too. While doing laps Jean makes a crass comment under his breath to you as one of the girls runs by and you laugh and nod, make sure to shoot a glance in her direction but not long enough to even tell who it was or what body part was particularly interesting. It’s hot and you’re out of breath and you could care less but maybe one day you will if you just put in the work.

It’s easy when you don’t try, just spur of the moment comments and easy smiles. Sometimes even Annie smiles back for half a second. But much easier is when you forget. Bertholdt doesn’t mind when you’re in his space, when you reach across the table to grab at Sasha running off with your bread ration you left too long and lean on him to steady yourself. He barely jumps when it’s winter and you’re cold and put your hands on his neck because he always runs hot even when it’s freezing. 

He doesn’t pull away or shove at you or even hiss a quiet “get off" when one night you roll over too far and put an arm around his side and pull him flush against you, hand low on his stomach, face against the rise of his shoulder. He just shifts a little, settles in against you and lays a had on yours. The tip of his thumb skims your knuckles. 

Heat pools in your extremities, and for once he almost feels cool to your touch. Your fingers slide lower, short nails pressing light half moons into soft skin, then more meticulously you probe your way beneath fabric and past curly hair. When you wrap your hand around him and pull he makes a noise that sets your heart beating so fast it almost deafens. You wish it weren’t dark, that you could see his face.

It’s quiet but you shush him anyway. Everyone should be asleep but if they’re not… Thinking about it won’t help. Being careful, muffling noise will. 

You pull away and he starts to protest, grabs you by the wrist and you clap your hand over his mouth. He twists and you shift, slide under his blanket and over him, your other hand pushing him back by his shoulder as you lean in and soothe him with a “shhh" before placing your lips on his. 

He meets your efforts, no longer cool under your touch. As his fingers grip your close cropped hair, he slides a thigh between yours and moves and this time it’s you fighting to hold back a noise. Under the blanket is stiflingly hot, and when you tug and push at unnecessary clothing Bertholdt almost burns beneath you. His skin is already damp and slick with sweat and while that isn’t new, there’s a thrill in causing it.

You’re not sure what to do, not really. You know what feels good when it’s just you, so it can’t be that much different and figuring it out through trial and error seems like a good enough plan of action. Whether or not he’s concerned you can’t guess. It’d be easier if you could talk instead of trying to communicate through stifled noises and hot hands ad rustling fabric and stray limbs bumping awkwardly.

A small ugly voice reminds you that you don’t need to be good at this. It doesn’t matter because in the end it’s not another man you’ll spend your life pleasing. This is just hormones and fucking around with your best friend because, well, he was right there wasn’t he?

You kiss the inside of his thigh and his fingers pull tight in your hair. 

It’s normal to do this, it’s not like it really means anything. Bertholdt isn’t stupid enough to think it does. He keeps quiet and to himself, barely talks to girls. He’ll never see any action in this place, he’s shy and quiet and comfortable with you.

You wrap a hand around his erection before lowering you head, wrap your lips around it too and bob down as your fist pulls up.

Just lending him a hand, you rationalize desperately, it’s what friends do. Because that’s all you are and all you’ll ever be and that’s what you want. A one time thing, you think firmly when he laces his fingers between your own and squeezes.

The next morning at breakfast you tell Christa how pretty she looks as Bertholdt sits down next to you on the long benches, careful to concentrate on how she laughs a little behind her hand, just as delicate and fragile as the rest of her. It breaks off like glass under a boot heel when Ymir joins the group and her attention switches to her friend, leaving the irritating shards of the last echo to slice through your thoughts. She smiles at something Ymir says and it’s bright and open and happy and you want it so bad it aches.


End file.
